


Geraskier Week

by LittleLalaith



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Condoms, M/M, Sirens, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22720765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLalaith/pseuds/LittleLalaith
Summary: A collection of short stories for the Geraskier Week event on Tumblr.1 - Soulmates2 - Monster Hunt3- Protection4- Hurt/Comfort5- Realisation6 - Found Family7 - Destiny8 - Free Day
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 258





	1. The Taste of Bread - Soul Mates

As the sunlight broke through the thin cover of leafy canvas, Geralt was eased from his sleep by the familiar strum of some distant and ethereal lute. It was the same sound as every morning, sweeter but more insistent than any cock crow; the sensory call of his soul mate from somewhere across the wide continent. For some people, the waking chime was a scent, or a taste, some had even reported waking to a visual reminder such as an illusionary rainbow or a robin perched on the ground. But, for as long as Geralt could remember, the Witcher had been called by the harmonious strum of a lute.

He waited, eyes pressed closed against the impending morning, to see whether another would follow… sometimes it did. When he visited a new town or found himself close to some settlement at the base of a mountain, he would occasionally hear a few more seconds of sound - just enough to notice but not enough to place the song. Once, while recovering from a selkiemore battle in a run down citadel, he could have sworn he heard the first note of his soul mate’s song pressing into the chord, but he had awoken and lost it before he could commit the voice to memory. Unfortunately, this morning was the same as most, with a single chord floating to him from his subconscious in its daily vigil to remind him that even Witchers had soulmates. Somewhere. 

Stretching and packing his sleeping roll onto the back of Roach’s saddle, Geralt scanned the landscape and tried to put his finger on the vague sense of optimism that had sounded so clear in the chord this morning. It was stronger today, closer… or perhaps he was just getting sentimental in his advancing years. Shouldering his sword, he sighed and made for the next village in search of a job, and some much needed coin.

-

Jaskier groaned and pressed his face into the welcoming dark of the pillow, bartering with the day for just a moment longer to sleep. His head was pounding after a night of deep chalices and loud cheering, his stomach curdled and sore as he tried to claw his way back into sleep, into blissful rest...

But it was too late, the sun had risen, his thoughts had started, and the taste of warm bread filled his mouth. Which, all things considered, was a welcome illusion compared to the stale wine and… well, whatever other tastes he might have lingering on his tongue. He focused on the taste, almost able to feel the texture of it against his tongue, but it faded away and left him with a mouthful of half-remembered bad decisions and a desperate need for water. 

Heaving himself from the bed, Jaskier poured himself some water from the decanter and admired the splayed form of last night’s company as they slept off the worst of the hangover. As he drank, he couldn’t quite dispel the phantom texture of bread against the roof of his mouth, the subtle hunger that the taste brought about in him. He pulled on a socially acceptable amount of clothing and turned his footfalls towards the bakery, allowing himself to sate the craving for once. 

Who knew, maybe today would be the day.

-

No such luck: the bakery was out of bread and the local outpost had no work for a Witcher. 

Frustrated and hungry, both Swordsman and Songsmith made their way to the tavern, unaware of their Destiny.

-

Geralt sat in the corner of the bar, nursing a beer to chase off the chill of the spring air and to give him something to do with his hands as he fought back a restless energy that he couldn’t quite explain. He counted out his coin and growled quietly, setting aside so much for his provisions and then counting the rest into money for beer. 

But his attention was savagely torn from his task when an open chord resonated from the strings of a lute at the other end of the bar. Not just ‘an open chord’ but…The chord. The chord he would recognise anywhere after almost eighty years of hearing it. Bawdy and cheerful and just a touch off key as the man at the other end of the bar tuned a string. 

Geralt’s mouth went dry, his gaze fixated on the young man as he broke into rapturous verse about a maiden and a carpenter. He was beautiful, not only in his physical appearance but in the grace of his movements, the chaotic energy of his grin. Not a wilting, hothouse flower but a vibrant wild weed - a dandelion, aggressively cheerful and insistent beyond reason. Geralt could see it in the confidence of his singing, the unintimidated way he approached much larger men to cast jokes and mockery at their feet. 

He was fearless… perhaps fearless enough to love someone as dangerous as a Witcher…

As a more raucous song was met with boos and thrown food, Geralt scoffed a laugh and turned his face away. If this was his soul mate, the kindest thing he could do would be to let the man live a full life without him.

-

Jaskier knew the song would go one of two ways: laughter, or jeering. Apparently this village had no sense of humour… but as they threw their disdain in his direction, he backed away and made the most of a bad situation. Even if he couldn’t earn coin for his music, he had at least obtained bread. 

He broke open a hard roll that had been caught mid-flight and hungrily dug out the soft dough so that he could satisfy his craving. And as he looked up from his task, he spotted the white-haired pillar of stillness in the busy rush of the bar. The bread took on a new familiarity against his tongue and he knew…

While it was true that he had always assumed that his Love would be a woman, possibly of wealth if there was warm bread to be had, at some court or gala… he couldn’t say that he was disappointed. Maidens were fun for an evening but they tired of him quickly. Their love was too easy, too fleeting. But there was a stability and fearsomeness in this man that he found himself intrigued by. 

After all, a man who has battled monsters and seen the worst of humanity could not possibly be offended by a blue-humoured song. A Witcher with the strength to protect him from his more foolish impulses might also have the power to discourage him from such acts in the first place. He was stable, steady, strong. And maybe, if the stars aligned just right… he would be just the kind of partner who could offer adventure and safety in harmonious balance. 

Naturally, it hadn’t escaped his notice how the stranger turned his face away with deliberate firmness. And he understood. Not many would be thrilled to find that their soul mate was a Witcher. But Jaskier couldn’t have been more pleased.


	2. A Song for the Beaten and Lonely - Monster Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monster Hunt - Geralt is sent to kill a murderous siren, and finds a friend instead.

Geralt had known about the siren before he ever saw the bounty notice on the tavern wall. He had been hunting and camping in the woods north-east of the town and had heard it's song floating to him from the river nearby. It knew about him too, or else it had spotted some other 'snow pelted wolf with fire for eyes'. But it had never really used it's songs to tempt him or to harm him - it had just been a voice in the near-distance, offering company from the safety of the river. 

So, Geralt was vaguely surprised to find the notice printed in the uncertain hand of uneducated labourers: 

_Help Wanted:  
Siren in Bindweed Wood. Looks like grown human man, with brown hair and blue eyes. Regular thief around local farms and has tempted women and men into the river where they have drowned. Must be killed.   
Reward: 200 coin _

Geralt frowned and regarded the notice, disgusted by his own sense of disappointment. He has been foolish to find comfort in the song of a beast… but a vaguely hopeful streak urged him to tread carefully on this quest. He had always prided himself on his willingness to listen and understand a creature, reluctant to kill anything that didn't truly need killing. 

When he set out the following day, he turned his footfalls straight to the woods and walked the path a few yards from the river. It wasn't long before a song floated to him through the trees, but this song was more sorrowful, yearning… 

He stopped and listened a while, drawing only close enough that he could hear the words clearly. Words of freedom and safety, of far away places and 'no cruel hand to sow bruises and harvest fear'; Geralt stepped quietly closer, peering between the trees to catch his first sight of the creature. 

And he knew that he could not murder this being. 

The siren was sat on a felled tree, long legs straddled over the bough as he sang quietly to the beaten woman beside him. Her face was a collage of bruises, her hair matted and lip swollen where it had split against her teeth. For his part, the siren was gently brushing out each burr in her dark locks with a soft horse-hair brush. 

Geralt settled his weight and watched intently, noticing the damp cloth drying out on the bark of the tree, no doubt used to clean up the woman's face. And now that he was closer, he could smell the applemint oil that he wore to hide his true nature. 

After a long while, having brushed out every knot with inhuman kindness and patience, the siren cupped her cheek and offered her two choices: in one hand lay a bandage, and in the other lay a bundle of food and gold. When he spoke, his voice was flat and without melody. Without enchantment. 

"You may take the bandage and return home, where I pray you will never need it, but suspect that you will. Or you may take the bundle and try for a better life elsewhere… Don't worry about your husband. If he comes looking, I will say that you drowned, like the others. They seem to believe it so far." 

Not drowned then, but given their freedom. 

The women hesitated over the bandage for a long moment before taking the bundle. All the while the siren waited silently, not influencing her to either decision. When she took the bundle, he smiled and carefully hugged her, "I am so glad. If ever you find yourself near the Mirioth River, look for me." 

The woman stood and thanked him, then superstitiously tore a hem from her blouse and tied it into a bow through the lacing of the siren's doublet sleeve. Geralt could see the strips of fabric lining both sleeves and had initially assumed that it was a type of fringe. But now that he looked, he could see the collection of pretty little bows: mostly over-washed whites, but with a few threads of blue and red standing out at intervals. So many people helped, and the ones who remained wished him dead. 

Once the woman had curtseyed and started along the path, the siren pocketed the brush and looked over at the Witcher, as though he had known all along. 

"I suppose you've come to kill me," he sighed, his voice bored and disappointed but eerily unafraid. "Is it still 140 coin?'

"200," Geralt replied, stepping out from the trees. "But I was sent to kill a monster who drowns people. Not a man who cares for others." 

The siren regarded him with a careful eye, then approached with a remarkably fearless tread. He offered a hand and gestured to the bough of the tree, "Come White Wolf, allow me to brush your hair at least. No charge. But if you're superstitious, you can add to my little collection," he smiled, waiting for Geralt to join him on the log. 

Geralt sat, wary but curious, and allowed the siren to brush out his hair with careful attention.

"They'll keep sending people to hunt you," Geralt explained, refusing to admit that the siren's touch was satisfying a deep-seated ache in his chest. Touch… such a simple thing. But so often denied to a monster like a Witcher. Like a siren… maybe that was why he did it. 

"Well, let them come. I have no intention of running," the siren answered, and Geralt found that he didn't like to think of him in those terms. The Siren. 

"What's your name?" He asked, turning a little to look at him.

The siren blinked and looked at him, surprised. "Jaskier."

"Well met, Jaskier. I'm-"

"Geralt of Rivier… I know. News travels fast in small towns," Jaskier smiled. 

"Hm." 

Jaskier worked quietly for a while before his nature fought through and he started humming, a quiet old song from the West. Once Geralt's hair was brushed, it was plaited and secured away from his face, practical but appealing. 

Geralt sat patiently, allowing himself to enjoy the subtle touch and attention. And it drove sharply into his chest that the siren would likely be hunted down before the winter fell. It was unjust, a sin against nature...

"Can nothing convince you to leave?" He asked, refusing to meet the perfect blue eyes that searched his features.

"Perhaps… if my company could help someone long-term, I might be persuaded. But I can't abandon the oppressed here for a selfish fancy." 

Geralt turned a little and took the siren's hand, amber searching ocean. "There are none more lonely than Witchers…" he started quietly, ashamed and awkward and scared. "Come with me, and we'll help more people than the population of Mirioth can house."

Jaskier looked at their hands, then cast his gaze to the village 

"Jaskier, you cannot help them if you're dead."

He nodded, straightening his posture and offering a smile. "Alright, Geralt. But brace yourself for continuous musical accompaniment to your battles." 

"So be it. I prefer it to silence anyway." 

Jaskier smiled and took his latest bow from his sleeve, using it to secure Geralt's hair. "Thank you."


	3. Better Safe Than Sorry - Protection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier sends Geralt on a wild basilisk chase in search of a protective item...

“Geralt, oh handsome and powerful Witcher of mine,” came the chiming voice of Jaskier, breaking through the peaceful birdsong that had been occupying Geralt’s attention. They had been traveling together for a few days, despite Geralt’ protests, and he had known that something was playing on the bard’s mind thanks to the restless way he plucked half-songs from his lute instead of finishing a single tune, or the way he chewed on his pencil when pretending to write. So, he had suspected that Jaskier would approach him for a favour eventually. 

“No,” was his only response. 

Jaskier plopped himself beside the White Wolf and batted his sinfully full eyelashes at him before draping himself melodramatically across Geralt’s lap. The bard was growing far too comfortable around the Witcher in recent weeks and Geralt knew that he should put a stop to it… but he couldn’t quite bring himself to raise a hand against his little lark. And he also refused to admit that he had begun to think of Jaskier in such terms.

“But dearest, sweet warrior, I am in mortal peril,” Jaskier sighed, altogether too calm for anyone in any form of real danger. “I need a basilisk wing, or my heart may well shrivel up and rot in my chest.”

Geralt frowned and looked down at the bard, trying to determine how much of his statement was true. He didn’t really understand a lot about human diseases but he did know that basilisk parts were used for a number of medicinal potions. He placed a heavy hand on Jaskier’s chest, alarmed by the quick strum of his pulse, until he remembered that humans’ hearts often beat that quickly while resting. Still, he didn’t like the thought of Jaskier growing sick with some disease...

“And a basilisk wing will cure you?” he asked seriously.

“A basilisk wing will solve all of my problems, yes.” Jaskier smiled, knowing that Geralt was all but wrapped around his little finger by this point. “I promise it will just be one single teensie-weensie basilisk fight. The same as a thousand other basilisk fights you’ve probably experienced throughout your life. And, I will even promise to pay you for your services.”

Geralt sighed and weighed up his options. He couldn’t well leave Jaskier to go hunting for his own damn basilisk, and if his heart was stricken with some kind of malody, then Geralt couldn’t allow himself to walk away without helping.

“You owe me,” Geralt surrendered, his hand straying over Jaskier’s stomach and curling around his side possessively. 

Jaskier grinned and leaned up to kiss his cheek, seemingly unintimidated by the low growl Geralt offered in return, “Oh, trust me. I have just the reward in mind for you.”

-

Of course, finding a basilisk was never an easy feat. They were solitary creatures by nature and avoided populated areas. It took them four days to hike the Garadrian mountain pass in search of the beast, and each night brought a plethora of mixed messages and frustration. Geralt had known from the start that Jaskier was attracted to him; the lust and fascination had been keenly obvious in his gaze ever since they met in that tavern so many years ago. And, by slow degrees, Geralt found that his own lust had grown beyond suppression too. He had been hesitant at first, allowing himself to admire the musician when his back was turned, or softening his speech when they were alone. He had quit grumbling whenever the intrepid bard insisted on accompanying him on missions, and had found a familiar kind of security in Jaskier’s many songs. 

And at night, when they loudly proclaimed excuses of needing more warmth or wishing to keep Jaskier close to protect him from predators, they would press close and allow their hands to wander. The kissing had started a few months ago, and neither of them had wanted to quit. For his part, Geralt was slowly opening up to Jaskier, allowing himself to trust… to allow the bard to matter to him, no matter how painful it might be in the end. As for Jaskier, he was as enthusiastic with his emotional expression as ever, offering sonnets and ballads as a thin disguise for horny requests… and yet...

When hands wandered and mouths met, Jaskier threw himself into the intimacy freely, desperately… but as soon as things developed further, Jaskier pulled away and offered Geralt his mouth instead. At first, Geralt had assumed that it was the stigma of sexual intimacy with another man, but he was vocal about their relationship and seemed comfortable in every other aspect. When Geralt asked him about it one night, Jaskier explained that he preferred to top, and Geralt had replied that he didn’t mind that at all. But his offer was met with contemplative silence and Jaskier had only kissed his cheek before saying, “There’s something I need to do first.”

-

With the basilisk wing retrieved and their journey ending at a small valley town, Geralt waited at the tavern for payment from Jaskier. The bard had gone running to an apothecary the moment they arrived and Geralt worried that his heart condition had been worse than he realised.

But when the bright-eyed bastard returned, seemingly unchanged, Geralt frowned. Jaskier locked the door behind him and sat on the edge of the bed beside the Witcher. He took one pale, scarred hand into both his own and contemplated his words before he explained.

“Geralt, I know that I’ve been running a little hot and cold lately… but I promise that you’ve done nothing wrong. Since we had that conversation about...well, my preferences as a top… I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. And I want that… I want you.”

Geralt softened his posture, not understanding but willing to hear the bard out, “I want that too.”

Jaskier grinned and kissed his knuckles sweetly. “I’m glad… But before we do that, I had to make sure it would be safe for you. I have something of an eclectic and full-bodied sexual history, so I didn’t want to risk passing anything on to you.”

And suddenly it made sense. It wasn’t that Jaskier was reluctant, but that he didn’t want to share whatever illnesses he might have contracted over the years. But then, the basilisk wing… “What have you done?”

Letting go of Geralt’s hand, Jaskier reached into his pocket and lifted out a robust-looking condom. Geralt stared at it for a long moment, then back at Jaskier. 

“They say that basilisk wing makes for the sturdiest and most reliable protection.”

Geralt couldn’t help the twitch of a smile that passed over his features and he kissed his little lark. “You’re an idiot,” he purred, leaning close. For all of Jaskier’s sweet intentions, he had forgotten one thing. “Witcher’s can’t catch diseases.”


	4. Closer to Danger, Further from Harm - Hurt/Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It just wouldn't be a LittleLalaith Collection without some ABO in the mix. 
> 
> Enjoy Jaskier experiencing a Drop and Geralt not knowing how to Alpha.

The day had been fraught with dangers and perils for both Witcher and Bard, from day break to day closing. It had started with the lightning storm that had threatened their camp on the mountain side, followed by a scavenger beast stealing the vast majority of their provisions, meaning that Geralt had to go out hunting and had gotten himself caught up in a Archespore patch; he had come back with food, but his scent was heavy with stress and they had used a large portion of their water supply to clean off the irritant residue that cling to his skin. 

By the time they packed up camp, it was high sun and the walking had been tough - Geralt had refused to ride Roach, sparing the horse in the hotter weather, which left Jaskier a little cantankerous... which was strange. He didn't usually find himself short-tempered with the Witcher, especially when he was doing something out of kindness - but the heat and the hunger and the stress of the morning bore down hard. Of course, the loose ground didn't help his temper and he twisted his ankle after his third stumble. At that point, Geralt had let him ride Roach for a while, but it was a poor trade off when he realised that the horseflies were out in force. By the time they found a suitable place to camp, it had grown dark and Jaskier felt exhausted... not just physically, but psychically, emotionally, mentally.

While Geralt started a fire, Jaskier unfurled his bedroll and curled himself up in the thin sheet. Despite the hard day's journey, the smell of Geralt preparing their rations turned his stomach and he curled in tighter. He just wanted to be in a soft, warm bed, with candied almonds and the scent of an Alpha settling into his skin. He wanted a soft tunic, or a robe... he wanted a hot bath, and for someone to brush his hair. He wanted his nest. As the stream of disconnected desires poured through his mind, he felt himself tearing up and he hastily tried to hide his face against the fabric of the bedroll; but he wasn't able to stop the choked sob that staggered out of his throat. He felt stupid, and tired, and over-sensitive. And he was embarrassed; he didn't want Geralt seeing him like this. Not while he was... realization lined his stomach with poisonous lead and he hid his neck with his hands. He was going through a Drop. 

Jaskier had never been particularly prone to drops, despite being a particularly emotive and passionately expressive Omega. He loved freely, allowed himself his comforts, but knew how to control his desires for long enough to get a job done. And he thought that he had been controlling himself just fine until now. But the different stresses had set off a chain reaction and it had all curdled into one big mess of a mood. Unlike a Heat, where he grew sex-maddened and desperate for an Alpha's knot, a Drop was more like a hormonal depression - an extreme mood swing. He whimpered weakly and ignored the way Geralt's movements stilled. Jaskier was stronger than this, he didn't want to be a burden on Geralt and he certainly didn't want the Witcher thinking that he was just some sensitive little courtly Omega who couldn't hold his own. 

In the end, Geralt's voice broke the silence - hesitant, uncomfortable. "Tell me how I can help."

Jaskier flinched, but slowly rolled to face the campfire and rubbed uselessly at his cornflower blue eyes. "I'm ok... just tired..."

Geralt regarded him for a long moment, stoic but alert. He sighed slightly, placing Jaskier's uncooked rations back in the saddlebag before bringing out an apple. It was something that Geralt had brought as a treat for Roach, but he placed it next to Jaskier and sat a little closer than he had been before. "It's not quite pastry or marzipan... but it's sweet and it's soft on the stomach."

Jaskier took it carefully, forcing himself to sit up but drawing the blanket around himself. He took a few bites, the sweetness helping to ease his spirits and restore him after a long day. He ate most of it before getting up to offer the rest to Roach; as the horse ate, he ran a hand over the smooth yet gritty texture of his fur. Softness... but not quite soft enough to bring comfort. He patted the horse's neck and paced heavily back towards the bedroll, jumping when Geralt gently grasped his wrist. A spike of panic jolted through his torso and he felt sick... but Geralt's eyes were soft, his expression sitting somewhere between concern and yearning. It was subtle... but Jaskier recognised it by now. 

"I want to help you, I just don't know how..." Geralt admitted quietly, searching Jaskier's features for some clue. The truth was, he had the same Ruts and cycles as any other Alpha, the same desires and needs... but he had only ever known a life of fighting and violence, dominance and protective gestures without any of the softness that came after the fight was over. His life was a never-ending growling match, so he didn't know how to make the Omega purr for him. "I've never been taught how..."

Jaskier considered his options for a moment, feeling over-sensitive and emotional, but desperate for the comfort of an Alpha... of _this_ Alpha. He nodded and carefully situated himself in Geralt's lap, his body fitting neatly in the hollow of the Witcher's crossed legs and protectively circled arms. He let himself lean into his chest, his face tucked into the crook of his neck where he could breathe in the bitter, heavy scent of him. As far as Alpha scents went, Geralt's was unusual... in Jaskier's experience, most Alphas smelled earthy or spiced, sometimes richly sweet in a 'red wood' kind of way. But Geralt smelled of clay, and smoke, and something exceptionally bitter. And yet... as Jaskier rested against him, he found the scent soothingly gentle against his over-whelmed senses. 

After a long moment, Geralt's paralysis broke and he swept a broad hand slowly over Jaskier's back and side, offering an uncertain gesture of support and comfort. Jaskier smiled and nuzzled his neck lightly. "When Omegas go into a drop, we feel overwhelmed and stressed. He just need some comforts and the scent of an Alpha nearby... and you were right about eating something sweet. That helps too."

Geralt nodded and tentatively ran his free hand through Jaskier's hair, scratching tenderly along the back of his neck and behind his ear. Jaskier melted into the touch, purring softly as he let the tension fade from his body. Hands that were capable of so much aggressive, turned masterful and tender when the Omega needed him most. When Jaskier realised how loudly he was purring, he blushed deeply and straightened his posture. Geralt only smiled and eased him back against his chest, "It's ok... I liked that sound."

Jaskier allowed himself to relax, the purr starting up again quietly as Geralt massaged his neck and shoulders, keeping him close so that his scent could help to ease Jaskier's suffering. He had never felt like this... useful and wanted and trusted. He wanted more of this, wanted to keep Jaskier close and ensure that another Drop would never even come close to hitting him. He wanted to brand his neck and wrists with his scent, wanted Jaskier's honey and flora scent lacing his own wrists too. 

After a long while, Jaskier's scent grew sweeter, less distressed. Geralt dared to nuzzle into his hair, planting a kiss on his forehead. "You don't ever have to fight through a Drop on your own... I'll take care of you."

Jaskier looked up at him, exploring the warm amber of his eyes for some sight of trick. But when he found none, he smiled and leaned up to kiss him sweetly. "You'll be my Alpha?" he asked, voice thrumming with a purr. 

Geralt liked the sound of that. He liked it a lot. "All yours."


End file.
